lightning s t r i k e
by mockingxcanary
Summary: "What if this storm ends, and I don't see you as you are now, ever again?" Rated M for eventually maybe M. Captain Canary. Strongly Canon-divergent after Russia
1. Leaves of Grass

Disclaimer: I don't own these baes, but they might own me. Also, this is my first fic, so . I have no idea what I'm doing.

The hallways of the waverider were quiet and dark except for the runner lights emitting a steady cool light among the corridors. The inhabitants, the would-be legends, were all asleep.

Except for Sara. Sara Lance had spent hours tossing in her bed, but he memories were going to be her outdoing.

In those quiet moments most people set their heads down and slept, content with their days or pondering over to-do lists, Sara Lance remembered.

It felt like another life now. She remembered running from her happy home towards danger, but that wasn't her anymore.

She was darker. A killer. The girl who had boarded the Queen's Gambit so far from her that it was like remembering a photograph you had once seen. A portrait beautiful but entirely removed from your current identity.

She stared at the industrial metal ceiling of her room, frustration leaving creases over her brow. Her body was exhausted, but her mind couldn't submit.

Admitting defeat, she tossed the sheets away, and stood from her bed. There wasn't any getting back to sleep right now. The visions weren't going to allow it.

Barefoot, she padded silently from what served as her bedroom in the Waverider. She sleepily stalked corridors until she reached the kitchen, expecting it to be empty.

But it wasn't.

Leonard was draped over the counter next to the counter. He hovered over a book, entirely engrossed.

Sara paused in the doorway, watching him carefully.

Time seemed to stretch and Sara, conflicted, wavered in the doorway.

"Are you coming or going, Assassin?" Leonard didn't look up. Long fingers flipping the page of his book.

Sara smiled, and strode into the room. She moved past him, selecting a mug— the shape of an owl— and continued, moving with practiced hands through the action of making cocoa.

A comfortable silence settled between them as he read and she maneuvered the kitchen. And when she pulled herself onto the counter behind him, blowing on the steaming liquid, Sara questioned, "So what kind of book could keep a crook up this late?"

"Oh, plenty." He said, eyes still engrossed in the pages before him.

"I wouldn't have pinned you for a bookworm." She blew on the cocoa, still much too hot to drink.

He didn't respond, taking his time to eye over the page, "Bookworm?" He flipped the page.

Sara tried to affect disinterest, looking at the appliances, the scattered belongings, but she couldn't help but glancing back at Leonard habitually. "Isn't that what you call someone who can't get their head out of a book?"

Leonard folded the corner of the page down. Some sort of defeat was admitted at her words. "What should I get my head into if not a book?" He turned to face her, leaning against the counter behind him.

Sara didn't have an immediate answer, sipping her cocoa to buy time.

"Our mission tonight, it had me thinking…" Leonard supplied breezily. "So I couldn't sleep."

Sara nodded. "Me either."

After everything that had happened in Russia, Sara had started to feel an acute camaraderie with the crook leaning opposite her.

"Thank you, Leonard, for today." Sara said looking at the cabinet near their feet.

Due to Sara's current gaze, she missed the awkward shift Leonard gave at her words. But when she looked back up at him, he was half-turned from her and back to his book.

Silence saturated the space between them, until finally his voice broke the gap, "You're welcome."

A long silence saturated the speech, but it was pleasant for the time of night. Finally, Sara gave into a smile, setting her coca down. "So, what are you reading?"

Leonard shrugged, "Transcendentalist blubber."

"It must be more than blubber if you're captivated this late at night." Sara retorted easily.

Long fingers slipped the book from the counter, "Captivated?" He crossed the space between them until he was leaning against the counter Sara was sitting upon him.

He placed the book next to her, an offering. Sara couldn't help but following his fluid motions with her eyes.

The spine read— "Leaves of Grass— Walt Whitman"

"Poetry, Leonard?" Sara couldn't help the teasing smile. He was close, only a few inches separated them, and — of course — "Leaves of Grass."

He pinned her icily, "Is there something wrong with poetry?"

The intensity of the look made Sara shift her gaze to the mode. "Just… unexpected."

"You wound me." Leonard's gesticulations amplified his words, hovering over his heart. "You really find me so two-dimensional, Lance?" His flare for theatrics was in no way affected by the clock ready to chime 3 o'clock in the morning. His held hers in a cryptic, unsettling way, despite the joking tone.

Sara paused, as if considering his question. Surveying him carefully, before offering just as cooly, Sara quipped, "More like one-dimensional, Snart."

"Oh." He made a minute shift closer to her.

Sara glanced down at his teasing eyes, his smirk, his confident posture. Whatever quip had been resting on her tongue seemed lame, and Sara didn't open her mouth in retort. She picked up the discarded mug beside him and sipped it.

Leonard watched her movements, cool and analytical. "And what kept a canary up this late?" His lips stretched in a smirk, eyes even more intent, "Cat in your cage?"

Sara chuckled as she rolled her eyes at the weak metaphor. It would have been an easy deflection, but she offered honestly, "Memories." Her gaze fell to her hands, wringing themselves like they were wash— nervous wash.

Leonard watched her carefully, prying with a deep and steady tone. "Memories?"

She wanted to tell him the faces that plagued her dreams and the things she had done to deserve so much worse. "I make you look like a saint. Leonard." Sara felt suddenly very exposed. Crossing her arms across her chest, she consciously leaned away from him.

Leonard's hand had been reaching out for hers, a weak attempt at comfort, but then the blast doors had phased open.

Rip had his typical somber countenance. "Good, you're both here." Rip hit a few buttons on the screen on the wall of the kitchen. Sara watched the display as it revealed the mission before them. They were going back to the 1920s.


	2. the great gatsby

_She wanted to tell him the faces that plagued her dreams and the things she had done to deserve so much worse. "I make you look like a saint. Leonard." Sara felt suddenly very exposed. Crossing her arms across her chest, she consciously leaned away from him._

 _Leonard's hand had been reaching out for hers, a weak attempt at comfort, but then the blast doors had phased open._

 _Rip had his typical somber countenance. "Good, you're both here." Rip hit a few buttons on the screen on the wall of the kitchen. Sara watched the display as it revealed the mission before them. They were going back to the 1920s._

 **Continued. The Following Evening**

Sara stormed in through the blast doors a vision of the roaring twenties. She wore white and gold dress, beaded fringe catching the light with each frustrated footstep she took.

"Wife?" She questioned, walking to the center console.

"We need something to distract Carlos Marcello," Rips said as if he was explaining something to the child.

"And I need to be his _wife_ to do that?" Sara's arms crossed, settling in for the argument she was going to have with Rip.

"Problem, Mrs. Snart?" Leonard was leaning over the console, blue-grey eyes roaming over her outfit appreciatively.

Sara shot a hard look at Leonard, ignoring the impish gleam in his eyes. Apparently, he had no qualms.

"I could be another body guard." Sara offered, switching her focus back to Rip.

Leonard straightened, long fingers adjusting the cufflinks on his navy suit, and before Rip could respond drawled cooly, serious again, "Lance— it's the 1920s." She would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

Sara looked back at Leonard, not veiling any of her displeasure.

They stared for a long moment, the strength of wills and pride leading neither to want to look away first. Something else, other than frustration, was in each of their blue eyes— and each wanted to know what the other was hiding.

Leonard seemed to reach his conclusion, glancing away from her and to Mick who had entered the room. He had always been a large and intimidating man, but in the black suit, he looked lethal— every bit the brutish body guard he was assigned to play.

"… and its a good plan," Leonard finished.

Stein, who had been busying himself with calculating the timing of each step, quipped easily trying to smooth things over. They did have a way of digressing into tangents, "You each will fit your parts as if you were written by Fitzgerald himself."

Sara sighed wordlessly agreeing to her role in the operation.

"Fitzgerald could never write me." Leonard shot back, tone sour.

"Oh?" Stein realized that they were doing it again, but asked the follow-up regardless. "No fondness for Fitzgerald?"

"I'm not the Nick Carraway type, Grey-top." Leonard drawled, checking his wrist for the time.

"Alright— enough wasting time," Rip cut in before anyone else could get distracted.

"Time to get to work." Leonard agreed.

 _New Orleans; 1928._

The air was warm and damp as they strode down the streets of the French Quarter in the twilight. The smell from restaurants wafted mingling with the air in a delicious spicy way. Laughter echoed from open windows and doors, and the soulful croon of a single trumpet weaved its way through the sounds.

Sara's hand was lightly resting in the crook of Leonard's elbow. It was a perfunctory gesture, simply designed to aid in the ruse of their cover. The contact was casual but comfortable as their footsteps fell side by side and in sync.

Mick was several paces behind them, looking hard like the body guard he was supposed to be— eyeing women and gin joints with relish.

Sara closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of this time and place, a pleased sigh escaping her. It was wonderful.

"Enjoying yourself?" Leonard's eyes were watching her, when his voice summoned her to gaze up at him.

Sara smiled, tilting her head. "How could anyone not?"

The way Leonard looked away, with a lazy roll of his eyes made it perfectly clear he didn't share her opinion, "The heat, for one." His fingers swept the air as if indicate the atmosphere. "But I suppose you're perfectly comfortable," Leonard's eyes drifted down the long section of exposed back to her buckled shoes, back up the fringe brushing her stockinged thighs and the sequins of the bodice. His implication was clear— the gorgeous blonde was uncharacteristically exposed.

Sara was used to people looking at her, but the intensity of the eye contact made her stomach twist. She swallowed, glancing away. It had been like she could physically feel those eyes sliding down and up her. "It is warm," she said lamely. (And perhaps the warmth wasn't entirely due to the weather.)

They fell into silence letting the sounds of New Orleans fill in the gaps.

He slowed their steps as they reached the corner of the street— a wooden sign indicated this was location, the Absinthe House. The walls of the building did very little to hold back the wailing of vibrant jazz within. The party was already in full swing.

"Shall we?" Leonard motioned Mick to head in before them.

The bigger man shrugged and attempted to walk past the guards posted outside. Comparable size to Rory, the bouncer put a hand out to block Mick's way.

"Sorry, this is a private party." He said in a deep voice that held no actual apology.

Mick looked over his shoulder at Leonard as if asking permission, which in effect he was, but Leonard guided his "wife" and himself forward easily.

"Mr. and Mrs. Snart— and this is my security." He said cooly. "Marcello and I have some business to discuss."

Sara offered a smoldering smile on cue, attempting her role of trophy wife.

The bouncer's eyes narrowed, attempting to hide his conflict. No one outside the mob knew that Carlos Marcello owned this establishment— well, other than time travelers, of course.

"Think about it, kid. What does your boss do to people who lose him money?" Leonard pushed just enough to convince the brute. He stepped out of the way, a silent consent.

Mick eyed the guy one last time, clearing wishing the bouncer would have put up a fight so he could have released some of his frustrations in the form of violence.

Sara couldn't help but marvel at the ease Leonard Snart played his roll, became another person entirely. It was fascinating and unnerving simultaneously, and as she strode past the guards she untwined her arm from his own.

Icy blue eyes watched her pull away from him, physically and emotionally placing distance. He scanned the room.

It was opulent, vibrant, and entirely wicked. Mick's grin revealed his pleasure, "Now, this looks promising!" His deep voice had enough joy to remind Sara of a kid on Christmas morning.

The jazz saturated the room. Drinks were in every persons' hand. Everyone was reveling in the atmosphere, and luckily for the trio— not much of anyone was paying them any attention, caught up in their own experiences.

"Mick, go do a round and find out where Carlos Marcello is." He glanced at his watch, "Meet up at the bar in 20." Leonard suggested. The man's grin widened. It was an opportunity for Mick to get into trouble, but Leonard Snart knew his partner would do as he requested.

Next to him, Sara was trying to take it all in, but it was stunning. The dancing, the crystal chandeliers, the short cropped hair and garter belts, the husky voice of the singer at the stage. She forgot herself for a moment, absorbing it all with a whisper of a smile.

When Leonard's eyes slid back to Sara, smiling dreamily, he paused with his expression settling into amused interest. After several moments of watching her, he spoke. "Care for a drink, _Mrs. Snart_." His tone was teasing.

The magic broken, the mission remembered, Sara and Leonard made their way to the bar with just a touch of annoyance pulling lopsidedly at her lips. She didn't offer any retort, however, choosing instead to file the remark away. There would certainly be the opportunity for retribution later.

Sara sat in a bar stool, legs crossing in a magnificent display of flesh and fringe.

Leonard leaned against the bar counter, ordering a martini— exceptionally dirty with gin— and bourbon on the rocks, before turning his attention back to her. His expression became contemplative.

Sara noticed the look, and silently questioned— eyebrows arching.

"I didn't figure you for the flapper type."

"Booze, dancing, and opulence. It would have been an interesting existence. Of course, I think it suits a crook more than a woman—" She took a sip of her drink, "they couldn't even vote ten years ago."

Leonard smirked, but as she talked he was watching the room. Mick was talking to a woman on the other side of the room, but he was starting to assume Carlos Marcello was up the stairs in the living quarters on the second floor.

The waiter returned with the drinks, and they sipped silently.

Sara watched the figures on the dance floor, after several moments began to sway herself. Moments later, as the song started up in a sweet swell of horn, she was standing— if there was time to kill, then she could at least enjoy herself.

Leonard raised a critical eyebrow as Sara downed the rest of her glass, and returned his stare with a smile— "Join me, Leonard?" After all, they were supposed to blend in, a married couple at a swanky party, and Sara Lance had never been a wallflower.

He sipped his drink, eyes piercing into hers with something she couldn't quite identify. "I'll just admire the view from here, Sara."

She shrugged and turned towards the dance floor, hips rocking with every step as the trumpet wailed in a way that sent the blood coursing more quickly in her veins.

There was something delicious about the horns wailing and the husky voice lilting through them, the way the fringe of the dress slicked around her with every movement— Sara surrendered herself to the waves of music washing over her.

She could feel him, though, watching, and the sensation caused a shiver to run up her spine. The two songs played through, and when Sara was about to return to Leonard and Mick, a hulk of man was blocking her way.

"Such a pretty woman shouldn't have to dance alone." He grabbed her waist and pulled her closer to him. It took everything she could do not to drive her palm up into the bridge of his nose. There was no way in the middle of the dance floor that wouldn't attract unwanted eyes. Carlos Marcello would most likely spook, and the artifact they were trying to find would be lost.

Sara smiled tightly. "If you excuse me, I should get back to my husband." The man made no move to release her.

"You're husband's an idiot to leave your side." His lips peeled back into a wicked leering grin. "He won't miss you for one more song." His fingers slid lower down her back, leaving Sara with the distinct impression he didn't have any interest in dancing.

Any attempt at levity vanished from Sara, "If you—" she was interrupted in her threat when she felt cool fingers settling on the exposed flesh of her shoulder.

Leonard Snart had his period-appropriate Colt drawn from its holster and pressed into the man's gut moments later. "If I were you, I'd take my hands off her." He stepped closer to hide the gun from the other patrons. His eyes were so cold they burned.

The man tightened his grip painfully, but then released her. He stomped off like a child who'd had his toy taken away. Leonard's glare followed him from the dance floor, before placing the gun back in his shoulder holster. She wanted to thank him, but his intensity made her fall mute.

Sara noticed his touch still reassuringly on her shoulder. When he looked back at her, his eyes were still hauntingly dark. "That's one of Marcello's enforcers. We need to get upstairs before he can make more trouble from us." His hand slid to the small of her back, leading her off the dance floor. It was a possessive touch. Despite its similarities to the previous gesture performed by the mafia goon, her body's reaction was polar opposite— heat twisting in the pit of her stomach.

"How can you tell?" She questioned, bringing her full attention to the mission, letting him guide her through the crowd.

He palmed a ring apparently out of thin air, but she knew better. He had stolen it from the goon. "This should be enough to get us upstairs."

When they stopped at the edge of the crowd, Leonard's eyes had returned to their typical icy look. His hand slid from her back. "You're ready for this?" his drawled question struck her off guard.

Sara smiled, "Whenever you are, Snart."

(Moments ago)  
Leonard had been appreciating the view. The way Sara's hips dipped and swayed. He'd sipped the whiskey in his glass, savoring the smooth heat shivering down his throat, burning a path.

Her path, however, the way her hips slipped through the air in a teasing winding, had burned like an inferno through his eyes, straight through his retinas.

It left him marked, like staring into the sun for too long. He couldn't pull himself away from the sight of her, the fake engagement on her ring catching the light with every sway of her hips.

Leonard stared, a slow smirk settling over his lips as her abandon became as lost as his desire to look away.

Then, the goon had appeared. His hands raking over Sara's flesh.

The ire welled inside the pit of his stomach as he waited for her to dispatch him, but it as this thugs hands slicked down her, wrapped over her ass— he saw the bloodlust and frustration in her eyes, unsure how to dispatch him.

Leonard felt something inside himself fracture, and his feet were moving in long strides of their own volition, fingers twitching in a barely contained rage.

(Moments later.)

He had guided her through the room, and Sara couldn't ignore the oddly protective aura exuding from Leonard.

It was unnerving.

Finally, as he was leading her toward the stairs where the infamous Carlos Marcello would be found, Sara pulled him to a stop.

Leonard pulled back, glancing down at her hand firmly holding his wrist, eyebrow raising in question.

"I don't need protecting," Sara said firmly.

Leonard smirked, "I know, but what kind of mobster husband would I be if I let someone disrespect my wife?"

Sara paused, before her glare redoubled, "I'm not joking, crook."

Leonard slipped her hand from her wrist, settling a shuttered look on her, "I know. You don't need protecting. But, I look out for my team."

Sara resisted the urge to cross her arms. There were still plenty of eyes on them, "Pretty noble for a common criminal."

He grinned cheekily before drawling, "I'm hardly a _common_ criminal, assassin."

Sara wanted to argue, but he cut her off.

"Just keep your cool and follow my lead, Lance." Leonard pinned her with a stare that brought Sara back past her pride to the importance of the mission they were currently on.

Leonard had been watching the guards, before Sara's decision to take a twirl on the dance floor. He guided her forward a few steps towards the stairs.

Sara didn't resist, despite her frustration at the entire evening. It was completely against her nature to be someone's arm candy.

When they were a few meters from the guards, and they had settled their gaze on her— a specimen of fringe and femininity, Sara had done her best to smile suggestively.

She had expected to be used and objectified, but what she hadn't expect was Leonard digging his fingers into the dress at the small of her back.

He pulled her into her, past intimate. Her hips against his, her chest molded to his, and when his hand snaked through the golden hair at the nape of her neck, she couldn't suppress a surprised gasp.

Shock filled her eyes, darting to his own.

Leonard stared down at her with a dark, chilly expression as he brought his lips against her. "…chill." He murmured nearly silently, before crashing down on her with a kiss.

The passion might have been faked, but when his tongue forced her lips open, Sara couldn't help a small moan from escaping. She couldn't help her fingers digging into his shoulders.

And then he was gone— a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

Sara's cheeks flushed at the sight, but then he turned away from her, and to the guards who had been watching the spectacle.

Leonard snaked his hand around her hip and pulled her forward as he approached the guards.

It took a few moments, and she absolutely refused to look at Leonard, to lick her lips like she wanted to, but she managed to smile at the guards as suggestively as her role required.

"Gentleman," Leonard said with his typical flair for theatrics. "I have a proposition for you."

The guards smirked, entirely sure of what he wanted and why he wanted it. Still, they refused, "The upper floors are for family only— no matter how much you want to take that little kitten upstairs."

Sara nestled her head into Snart's shoulder to keep her face from belying that he wanted to kill both of them for calling her a kitten.

Leonard pulled her a bit closer, aiding her misdirection. "Family?" His spare hand was presented, the gold and ruby pinky ring on his left hand. "Or do I need to call down Marcello?"

The guard frowned, clearly debating the fact that he'd never seen Leonard but also respected the ring on his finger, and luckily his pee-brain won out. They were allowed past.

Leonard and Sara continued the intimate display, his hand roaming down her back as they walked up the stairs. When they reached the top of the flight, his fingers were nearly rounding on her ass—

"If you go one inch more, I will kill you slowly over a period of days, Snart." Sara whispered lightly in a way that anyone outside of earshot would have thought were sweet-nothings.

Leonard eyed her smugly, "You didn't seem to have any objections earlier, Lance."

Sara shot him a glare, but his teasing eyes were unaffected. As soon as they were out of eyeshot from the crowd below, she pulled away from him, entirely unwilling to entertain whatever he was getting at— back to the mission.

"Which door?" As they reached a hallway with five different rooms on either side.

Leonard hadn't lost the smug smirk, but motioned to the room at the end of the corridor, and they approached it carefully— just as it opened.

A man with slicked back hair and a frame less muscle than sinew— like a rats, but despite that fact, he had about himself an air of importance.

"Mr. and Mrs. Snart," he smiled with absolutely no fond emotion in his eyes. "I've been waiting for you."

Sara and Leonard smiled and offered a chuckle. Despite the narrowing of eyes, the man accepted them. Had any other members of the team been present? It might not have gone so smoothly. This was a man who was used to being lied to and could identify those doing the lying— except, maybe, when it was from a crook and an assassin.

"Right this way," he beckoned them into his office. Leonard and Sara followed with an ease, despite their growing anxiety.

Leonard smiled at Sara in a way that was too wholesome for her to misunderstand the meaning. He would be doing the dealing, and she should prove to be a distration— as per the plan.

He sat in one of the wicker captain's chairs opposite the large mahogany desk. Sara didn't sit, but instead interested herself in the other objects around the room.

Carlos Marcello watched both of them for a long moment, eyes lingering on Sara as she fingered the statue in the corner of the room, before turning back to Leonard.

"P.J. tells me you have a proposition." Carlos said, finally, eyes still on Sara who was turned away from them.

Leonard, clearing his throat in an exaggerated way, pulls Carlos's eyes back to him. "Tell me, Mr. Marcello, have you heard of a black opal?"

The man observed Leonard for a long moment, before nodding in concession. "What do some stones to be turned into baubles mean to me, Mr. Snart."

Leonard leaned forward, his voice lowering to a husky whisper, "…when they are the most valuable things in any parish in this state."

Carlos raised an eyebrow, silently urging the man to continue.

Sara smiled openly as her eyes settled on him, a wife pleased by her husband's skill, to those not more privy to was going on.

Carlos flipped his gaze between her and him, and Sara turned back to the bookshelf, letting Leonard create his scene.

"I think, Mr. Marcello, we could be mutually beneficial." Leonard offered a lopsided smile, cool eye glued on the other man.

"How is that?" Carlos leaned back into his chair, pulling a unlit cigar from his ashtray and chewing it absently.

Sara lost focus on the conversation as her fingers stroked the fingers of the books in the mobster's office. She read each title before her digit slid to the next book. None stuck her fancy before she found— a mint version of the Great Gatsby.

Without questioning if she was allowed, the pulled the tome from its brethren, perusing the pages. 'The Great Gatsby' had only been published a few years before, and it was marvel that it had reached down to the deep south already.

Sara flipped through the pages, barely concerned with the men behind her until Carlos was suddenly looking over her shoulder.

"So, Mr. Snart, you have one of these new educated women?" Marcello's tone was almost mocking, but Leonard made no step to correct him, merely observing with icy blue eyes.

Sara smiled at the man, sensing her moment. "I've read it once before."

Marcello glance held her, question and lust in equal parts. It made Sara want to use him as a punching bag, but she simply nodded and confessed (honestly), "It's one of my favorites."

Sara glanced at Leonard, remembering his previous dismissal of the text, _I'm not the Nick Caraway type_. But she couldn't disagree, he definitely wasn't the Nick Caraway type.

"You're a rare woman, _cher_." Marcello said leaning closer to her. Sara kept the frown from her lips, but then Leonard was standing, drawing the mobster's attention back to him and their business deal.

"So," Leonard strode to Sara and wrapped a possessive hand around her hip, "do we have a deal, Marcello?"

The men stared at one another for long moments before Marcello took a half-step back, a concession to the married man.

"I would love to agree, Mr. Snart, but I don't have the authority."

"What do you mean, Marcello?" Leonard questioned, eyes turning hard.

"I will have to ask the boss." The greasy man checked his cuff.

Sara glanced at Leonard with question and apprehension in her glance, but he didn't acknowledge those, merely pressured Marcello with his icy stare, "I was under the impression you were the boss, Marcello."

The mobster laughed, and smiled, as if he was the only one in some sort of inside joke. "Wait here," he said finally, and walked out of his office, leaving Sara and Leonard alone.

After the door shut behind the time-traveling duo, they danced apart— Leonard moving to the painting that concealed the safe and Sara gluing herself to the door, ear pressed against the wood and fingers on the knob.

Leonard pulled back the painting with a scoff, "So cliche."

Sara fought the smile from her face as he set to work. "Maybe it's not cliched yet in the 1920s."

Even at work, Leonard had enough time to correct her, "The painting on the wall trick was first employed in the early 19th century." He spun the dial, falling into silence until — click.

"I would have been so much more appreciated at this time period," Leonard said with a sigh. Master thief when a lock was all he had to worry about…

Sara hissed, motioning that there was someone approaching, and the thief turned on his comm briefly— "Tell Mick to make with the distraction, Rip," — then he switched it back off, shut the safe and they were in their previous locations by the time the door opened.

Sara was flipping to the next page of the novel, and Leonard was watching her do it in a predatory gaze that she entirely missed.

Carlos walked through the door first. "Mr. Snart— and Mrs. Snart—" Sara controlled her irritation at being an afterthought, "the real boss of the New Orleans mob family."

They both turned— and could barely control their expressions, keep from looking at each other with a nervous expression, and it was by grace that it had been Sara and Leonard who had been selected for the mission. They merely smiled at the dark man who followed Carlos into the room.

Sara immediately turned back to the book— reading with every fiber of her being. So much for a clean exit.

Leonard stood, fingers extending in a handshake.

"Mr. Vandal Savage," Carlos introduced them.

Due to the timeline, Vandal hadn't yet met them. Sara let a low breath out as she realized their cover hadn't been blow, but the men immediately disregarded the sound as a woman enraptured in a novel.

Leonard wasted no time, "I assume that Mr. Marcello has surmised what I have to offer, Mr. Savage." His smirk was confident, unaffected.

"He has." Vandal Savage said darkly, eyes roaming between Sara and Leonard with plenty of suspicion.

"And?" Leonard tilted his head.

"I'm afraid we'll have to decline." Carlos answered his boss, trying to suspend the tension.

Leonard watched both men carefully, before shrugging, "Unfortunate. But I assure you, it's your loss gentlemen." He slid across the room until his hand rested against Sara's hip, "My wife and I will be going."

Sara turned under his fingers, resisting the urge to look at him, and smiled at Carlos Marcello and Vandal Savage— two men who she wished history would erase— "Gentlemen," she offered in exit.

A tension seemed to stir in the room. Vandal and Marcello watched him carefully, and Sara turned from the book to observe— their hands reaching, for something, and her own fingers itched— waiting for the moment to begin the fight.

At that moment, a man threw the door open, startling all of them and suspending the tension.

"There's something going on downstairs!" He announced to Marcello.

With an angry glance at the couple, the two of them stormed out of the room leaving Leonard and Sara in the office to themselves once again.

"Thank you, Mick." Sara said with a smile.

Leonard merely smiled in appreciation, "Time for our exit."

"If we're lucky, it'll take them a while to figure out that we took anything, and we'll be safely abroad the waverer," Sara whispered tightly.

They left the office, striding down the corridor and stairs, and barely no one noticed them— that is, until Kendra flew through the window and picked an unwilling Mick up by his armpits and flew him out of the building.

Suddenly without an opponent, Carlos and Vandal turned the stairs where Sara and Leonard were currently descending to supposed safety.

It wasn't everyday an entire room of mob thugs turns to stare you down, and Sara and Leonard, halfway down the stairs exchanged an eyebrow raised glance before they took to their weapons.

They were running, Sara at the front slamming bodies out of their way with her batons, and Leonard took out the opponents behind them and far enough head that Sara didn't have a chance to reach them yet.

Sara's shoulder slammed into the back exit, and they were running down a back alley, head lightning igniting the sky above their heads. The didn't speak, merely ran and breathed, and ran.

After long moments, it could have been minutes or it could have been hours, Leonard pulled Sara against him into a small alley. She fought for a moment before settling against his grasp and catching her breath.

Leonard fought to catch his own, and it hadn't been a minute before he heard movement down the street.

Pulling Sara against the wall, he put his hands on either side of her head.

Sara felt the damp brick at her back, and couldn't help but to look up into Leonard's eyes with question. "What—"

He placed his thumb to her lips, leaning just a bit closer to whisper, "For an assassin, you're not very very good at knowing when to take a cue." He leaned into her shoulder just as several men with guns walked by the alley.

Sara felt his breath fan over her collarbone and couldn't help but stiffen. After the apparent threat was gone, and he straightened with a smug and amused smirk, Sara ignored him. Turning on her comm— "We've got a problem."

Rip's worried tone echoed through the comm, "What happened, Lance, are you and Snart okay?"

Sara chanced a glance at Leonard, looking at the possible exit options, "We're okay, the item is in our possession, but we're not going to be able to make it back to the ship until this quiets down."

Rip seemed to be trying to soothe their nerve when they came back on the comm, "We have Rory and Kendra, so we'll send the jump ship for you, no need to keep you there longer than you need."

At this point, Leonard activated his comm with a cold and calculated argument, "You don't get it, Time Master. Vandal Savage was the head of the Marcello mob, not Carlos. He's looking for us— if you send some time ship to get us. You sure he won't notice?"

His eyes slid to Sara, trying to adjust to the dim light of the New Orleans alley. "I'm not willing to risk it."

After a long silence, Rip said, "When you feel its safe, we will be at the rendezvous point."

Leonard looked at Sara for a long moment before she nodded and turned off his comm. He did the same.

They'd walked the streets for a while, looking for the perfect hotel, before the flash of lightning and the large drops of rain had forced them into this one.

The Prince Conti— it was lavish, and Sara and Leonard in their regalia fit right into the group already sitting around the bar. They wasted no time with niceties, walking to the desk.

"Monsieur," Sara said in perfect french.

Leonard had to suppress the interest at the perfect accent.

"Monsieur, s'il vous plait." The man behind the counter turned to her with interest at the use of his native language.

"J'ai oublié mon numéro de chambre, monsieur." Sara giggled drunkenly, leaning over the counter to touch his hand with hers.

Leonard smirked, the smirk of a man watching another craftsman at work. "Oh, _cher_ ," he couldn't resist mimicking the men from earlier that evening, "I've seem to found our key." He raised a key from supposedly his pocket.

Of course, he had merely palmed from the deskman while he was distracted by Sara.

The deskman looked more than a little upset at the presence of his paramour's husband, but when Leonard (once again) snaked his hand around Sara and led her off onto the elevator, the man knew he stood no chance.

In the elevator, Leonard didn't let go of Sara's waist.

Sara's eyes glide to his, but Leonard doesn't look back to hers, merely guides her out of the elevator when they reach the appropriate floor. They walk in silence down the corridor.

He doesn't release her until they're inside the suite that would be theirs for the evening. Then his hand leaves her hip like it was red-hot. He walks to the window, peeling open the shade to reveal the riverscape outside their window.

Sara walks over the room, examining the single kingsize bed, the large portrait windows that seemed to have captivated him, before letting out a long sigh.

"Well, I guess nothing ever happens as planned," She offered trying to lightening the mood. They'd only just escaped Vandal Savage, left with the golden comb that might be his undoing, and now they were in this bedroom (hopefully undiscovered) until the mob and Savage's forces stopped looking for them.

Leonard didn't respond, staring out the window at the candlelight provided by the ships edging down the river that was their scenery.

She knocked off the heels that were too tight, especially after fighting and running. Sara looked down at her dress and back to Leonard's still unexpressive back before, "Take off your shirt."

He turned back to her with a smile that made her mouth run dry.

"I expected a seduction from you to be more… seductive, Canary." The teasing didn't do anything to help the heat that settled in her belly when he looked at her that way.

"I'm not trying to seduce you." Sara answered, sitting down on the edge of the bed, voice less definitive than she would have liked, as she slipped the tights from her legs.

"Says the woman undressing," Leonard's eyes watched her every movement, making a heat flush over Sara's cheeks unbidden. She ducks her chin, trying to hide the heat of her flush.

Despite an apparent objection, he takes off his jacket, tossing it over the simple wooden chair in the corner of the room. Without removing his eyes from her, Leonard removes the cufflinks, the tie, and pulls the shirt out from his slacks.

"There's no way I can sleep in this," Sara's stands meeting his eyes and motioning to the tight fringed dress.

"No one can sleep when you're in that," he teases with a drawl.

Sara had opened her mouth to object— but his shirt had flown through the space between them. She caught it with one hand, easily.

"Go change, Canary."

He stood before her in a white undershirt and slacks, and Sara found herself unable to pull her eyes from his frame. Lithe, capable muscle and layers of scars, and those piercing blue yes— she finally turned and walked to the adjacent bathroom.

Leonard watches her, waiting for some sort of gasp at the scar tissue exposed even though only his arms were exposed, but Sara didn't offer any shock. She'd merely smiled and turned— back to her business.

He heard the spray of water in the bathroom turn on and force himself not to imagine her freckled body under the warm spray of water. Despite his best efforts, a hand came up and ran down his face, willing himself to not imagine her.

He couldn't help but smiling as he went to the jacket he'd discarded on the chair, pulling out first a golden comb. The artifact they had come to gather. It was hard to imagine something so simple could kill an immortal tyrant.

Leonard turned it over in his fingers, feeling each edge, examine it tactically, before placing it back in the coat. Then he pulled out the other object he had been concealing in his coat.

A book— the mint version of 'The Great Gatsby' that Sara had lovingly poured over in the study of Carlos Marcello.

(In the Hotel Bathroom.)

Sara wiped her body with the cotton towel perfunctorily before pulling the dark shirt over her head. Her hand wiped the steamed mirror, finding herself in his shirt and soft expression on her face.

Despite herself, she leaned into the collar of the shirt covering her and inhaled. Inhaled him — crisp and heady, like walking in the woods when the first snow fell. Catching herself, the happy quirk of her lips mirrored back to her, Sara is forced to pause.

Despite her better judgement, she closes her eyes—

His lips over hers, his hand on her hips pressing her body to his own, and then his tongue delving into her lips and twining with her own.

Sara's eyes open as if in shock, smoothing the shirt and attempting to smooth her resolve. Turning on the cold water, she bends over the sink and splashes the cool water over her face— over and over, trying to will him out of her thoughts.

(Bedroom)

When Sara finally came out, Leonard had already occupied half of the bed.

He watched her carefully as she re-emerged in his dress-shirt, but he couldn't help but letting his eyes roam over her in satisfaction.

"It looks better on you than me," he offer attempting nonchalance, but he was still watching her. She missed the way his throat was dry.

Sara smirked, fingers trying to comb through her hair, "That almost sounds like a compliment." Then her eyes fell onto the book casually discarded on the other half of the bed.

Leonard inspected his nailed, affecting entire indifference.

"You—" She picked up the book, "how did you manage it?"

They had been together during the entire escape. Her fingers roamed the casing and spine affectionately before looking up at him.

Leonard continued examining his nails, "Thief, Canary." He looked at her from under heavily lidded eyes, "I can't reveal all my secrets."

Sara sat on the edge of the bed that they were going to share. "You know this is with more than its weight in gold in 2016?" Chancing a glance over her shoulder at him, but he's still not looking at her.

His icy blue eyes turned to hers, penetrating and predatory, "In that case— I'll be having that back."

Sara smiled, turning to the page she'd left off at— "No chance, Snart."

He smiled, eyes closing again, even when she settled into the place next to him and devotes herself to the story in her hands.

After several long moments, Sara had almost forgot Leonard was prone next to her, eye closed, intent on sleep.

"Read to me." He said without opening his eyes.

Sara glanced over her shoulder— coming up from the novel with a half-dazed understanding. "What?"

"Read it aloud, assassin." Leonard said, slow and bored. "It's not like there's TV or anything." He opened one eye to set her with a half-glare, though there's no bite in it.

After a long moment, "Fine," Leonard closes his eyes, apparently pleased by her submission, "but I'm not doing the voice."

"Alright,' I said, "'I'm glad it's a girl. And I hope she'll be a fool — thats the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'….."

Leonard smiles when she's not watching.

Sara reads the text. After a long while her deliver becomes choppy, and several words start to drop off into incoherence. Sara holds out, reading despite the fact her forehead nods between upright and the book she's reading.

Leonard opens one eye, seeing Sara struggling to stay awake, to stay reading, and he offers a smile no one can witness.

When she fall asleep, book finally pressed against her forehead, he waits a few moments before taking it from her lax fingers. She'd tried to resist the removal, but he was a thief after all.

Watching Sara roll to her side, closer to him than he would have ever typically comfortable, he found himself flipping through the book.

One phase catches his interest— "It takes two to make an accident."


	3. I Knew A Woman

Chapter 4: "I Knew A Woman" By Theodore Roethke.

Silence filled the hotel as in the wee hours of the morning, the hallway lights were extinguished. The heat and humidity of New Orleans lessened, and a heavy stillness settled over the room Leonard and Sara shared like a blanket.

For long minutes, perhaps hours, they mere slept in one another's company— resting close enough to feel one another's presence, Leonard's cool frame under the thin quilt and Sara resting comfortably wrapped in only his shirt.

Until Sara's fingers began to twitch, eye lids squeezing tightly as if to shield herself from some invisible specter, but still clinging to sleep desperately. A pained whimper left her lips.

With a barely audible grumble, Leonard opened his blurry eyes, intent upon silencing Sara with a quiet word, but then she turned.

Shallowly waking, her fingers reached out greedy like a child's, craving comfort and warmth, until her arm was draped over his body and cheek nestled in the hollow of his collarbone.

Leonard stiffened, blue-green eyes watching her carefully. He found his head tilting, seeing a reflection of another girl in her silhouette. When Lisa had been young, before she'd turned so hard as to not need him, she'd wanted to be held when the nightmares came.

Exhaling a low sigh through his nostrils, rolling his eyes for no one's benefit but his own, he gingerly adjusted until his arm was more comfortably wrapped around her. "Just this one, Lance," he murmured, and it might have been a trick of the dim light, but he thought maybe the corners of her sleeping lips had turned upward in a soft smile.

Fingers idly smoothing the dress shirt against the small of Sara's back (as soothing of a motion as he was capable of)— the dress shirt he'd been wearing just hours ago— Leonard closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep.

Sleep isn't exactly the sort of thing a person can will into existence, however, not even if you're Leonard Snart.

The way her breath fanned against his exposed shoulder— the smell of lavender and spearmint wafting up from her still damp hair— the indent of her spine that his middle finger continued to trace absently through the thin cotton of the shirt, until in curiosity or something else, his stretched his palm out and traced her back in larger circles.

A sleepy and annoyed squirm brought Sara shifting closer to him, if that was possible. A single eyebrow quirked in interest… she was ticklish, the assassin was ticklish.

He didn't suppress the smile, too genuine for him to typically allow on his face, but— who was going to see?

Sleep itched as the corners of his consciousness, and holding the blonde (far too warm against his cooler skin) in a way he'd almost forgotten he could, Leonard drifted back off.

(Morning, 7:48 AM)

A knock sounded at the door. Soft at first, bringing Sara to the edge of consciousness. She nestled her forehead into the pillow, grumbling incoherently.

"No," was about the only thing from the slur of sounds that was intelligible.

When the pillow underneath her cheek, larger than she'd remembered and oddly warm, shifted in similar agitation at being pulled from sleep, Sara blinked her eyes open.

Leonard's blue-green eyes were laughing silently as he watched her, and it took several long seconds to realize— her arm casually tossed over his chest, her calve nestled in the valley between his knees, the red spot on her cheek from where it had been laying on his chest.

Another knock, this time much more insistent, had Sara flying from the bed and from the contact. What. The. Hell? But there wasn't time to ask, and she wasn't sure she would have even if there had been enough time.

Leonard, seemingly unflustered, walked to the door. Sara slid along side him into the blindspot that would form when they pulled the door open. Pushing away the lump in her throat, she focused on the potential threat might be on the opposite side of the door.

Pulling the door open enough to glare out into the hallway, Leonard didn't have to hide his agitation. Although he wasn't sure how he'd imagined this morning going, this certainly hadn't been it.

There was a boy in the hotel's uniform on the other side of the door.

He waited for him to speak, explain himself, but when the boy just stared at him mute and wide-eyed, Leonard clipped, "Did you wake me up to stare at me, or is there something you want to say?"

The boy wrung his hands nervously, "Oh I'm sorry, monsieur, I didn't think anyone was in this room," he offered lamely.

Leonard raised an eyebrow drawling, "Then why did you knock?"

You could see a thin layer of sweat on the boy's brow— "P-p-policy, monsieur." Hearing the bumbling, Sara stepped behind Leonard, revealing herself to the boy. Despite being covered from collarbone to mid-thigh, the boy turned a bright red around his ears. Clearly he had interpreted their evening's activities in a more tardy direction.

Leonard let his eyes slid over the image Sara made— barefooted and hair a lovely mess— yes, far too much for a 1920s baggage boy to handle.

The boy mumbled nervous parting remark before darting down the hallway and towards the staircase. Leonard shut the door quietly, before turning to Sara.

They didn't have to say anything, the look they exchanged conveyed everything— they had been made. Without a moment's hesitation, Sara returned to the bathroom to put back on the previous evening's clothes.

Leonard turned on the comm connecting him to the team on the Waverider. "Screw the timeline, we've been made."

"How?" Rip's voice filtered in sounding tired.

"They were scouting the hotel we got ourselves into— I expect the man at the front door had a lasting impression of our assassin." Well, some parts of her at least. It had been hard to ignore the other man's leer as she'd sashayed down the hallway towards their room.

Mick's amused baritone, "Hotel, huh?"

Everyone seemed to ignore that comment, including Sara who was emerging from the bathroom with her hair in a rushed updo and 1920s regalia back in place.

She tossed Leonard the shirt soundlessly— the last thing they needed was feeding the team's interest in their evening.

"I bet it's so lavish! I would have loved to see some real New Orleans finery."

"Yeah, it's swell," Leonard cut through the rest of the tangents, "but I don't really want to die here. So, why don't y'all send the jump ship to the roof— pronto." He finished re-dressing with quick and precise movements.

Despite the imminent danger, she observed the way Leonard placed his cufflinks and tied his tie with more interest than she could easily explain.

The couple had ducked out of the room without seeing any signs of Marcello's (well, Vandal Savage's) mobsters, that is— until they rounded the corner.  
Sara pressed against the wall, forcing Leonard back with her arm. Silently ordering him to stay still and quiet.

Leonard let himself be forced against the wall behind Sara. Her hand pressed against his chest in a way he found rather distracting. They waited for several seconds before Sara turned back, "I'll take them out. Cover me."

He barely had the opportunity to nod before Sara was turning around the corner. She grabbed one of them in a chokehold and pinned the other with her heel agains the wall— choking off his air. After several moments of fruitless struggling against her vice grip, both of them dropped to the floor.

Leonard couldn't help but offer a low whistle, catching Sara's attention.

"What?" she checked the guards before picking up their two discarded handguns. Sara didn't care for guns, but considering they were most likely severely outnumbered by this point, she wasn't going to let pride damage their chances at a clean getaway.

"A man can't appreciate a craftswoman in her element?" He drawled smoothly, checking the staircase for any other thugs, but was met with silence.

Sara smiled cheekily, following him into the stairwell and up the stairs towards the roof and their escape.

Of course, they only made it a few floors before they ran into trouble, and given the stairwell didn't offer much opportunity to avoid eyesight— the man managed a shout or two before Leonard knocked him out with a savage right hook.

Sara opened her mouth to offer a quip when she heard the pounding of footsteps up the velvet carpeted staircase. Lots of footsteps. Exchanging a glance, they set back up the stairs with Sara bounding up two at a time to keep pace with Leonard's lithe frame.

Reaching the roof access, the poured out of the door blinking at the sunlight.

"Find something to wedge it shut!" Leonard called before activating his comm. "Where are you, Mick?"

Sara had used a long piece of plate metal to stop the initial onslaught from the mobsters, but as she looked over at him the grave set of her eyes informed him that it was a matter of time.

"Almost there, boss." The gruff voice of Mick Rory echoed back through the device moments later.

As if to prove that point, a gunshot pierced the wooden door turning a chunk of it into splinters.

Sara dodged, as Leonard returned fire. They both backed up towards the edge of the building, evaluating the possibility of jumping. Perhaps she could have made it down to the balcony a few floors down, but she wouldn't leave Leonard (and wasn't confident in his ability to pull off the parkour).

"We're about to end up Swiss cheese here, guys," Sara said, frustration and a tinge of fear tainting her generally steely attitude in a fight.

Then there was a shifting of the air behind them, and a shimmering as a the hatch of the jump ship opened. Jefferson was piloting, and Mick called to them over the whooshing of the engines — "No time to land! You've got to jump!"

With a glance over her shoulder, just in time to see the mobsters break through the door, Sara nodded to Mick and flung herself towards the jump ship. She landed in a roll, more than clearing the gap.

Leonard's own lips had creased into a frown, but what other option did he have? He landed, without the grace of the assassin, but safety on the jump ship.

"Try to shoot my partner?!" Mick Rory set the flame gun on the mobsters standing awestruck on the roof. More than a few of them found themselves suddenly quite on fire. They flew off Mick closing the hatch after another volley and a deep laugh filled with maniacal glee.

—

Debriefing proved to be as odious as it always was, but Sara found it particularly frustrating because she was wearing a day-old flapper dress, ripped tights, and her her hair had taken on its own alternate gravity in all the chaos.

Could she go get washed up first? No, they said. Vitally important they said. And then, they didn't even listen.

Leonard appeared similarly disinterested, examining his nails from his position sprawled across one of the chairs. Sara found him to be a rather large feline when he got into these moods.

Cutting off the rest of the team, she set an angry glare on Rip. "Let's get back to the fact that you sent us in there against Savage— blind!"

"Now, Miss Lance, it wasn't like I intended any thing of the sort…" he said lamely.

"Yeah, Sara," Ray offered his support for the captain, "not even Gideon can see everything where Savage is concerned."

Sara glared in response, but didn't continue the line of argument. They were both right, after all, but it didn't make her any less upset. "It could have gone bad. Like dead, bad."

Rip turned pensive, scratching his beard in thought, "Luckily, yourself and Mr. Snart proved more than equal for the task."

The admission cooled her anger enough for her to allow the conversation to be diverted by Kendra who was running her fingers over the metal comb in an almost affectionate manner. "I think we should end this before anyone else dies…"

Everyone knew who she was talking about it, but it was Jefferson who finally spoke up with a light but confused tone, "And how exactly are you going to kill Savage with a comb?"

The ex-Egyptian priestess merely shrugged as if that was a technicality.

Sara blanched, "Seriously?" Generally, they got along, but occasionally she found the barista turned hawk girl so incredibly unprepared for this operation that it was infuriating. "You're just gonna— what? brush his hair until he dies of boredom?"

Leonard, who had been silent for the conversation with a bored tone, chuckled in dark amusement. Kendra turned from glaring at Sara to him and then back to Sara.

It was impossible not to notice that the assassin had wounded the other woman, but Sara didn't back down.

Stein, ever the peace-maker physicist, soothed, "I believe what Sara means, Kendra, is that in this time period we don't only have to contend with Vandal Savage— but an entire underground criminal organization."

"What I mean, Kendra, is that if we want to do this right— for Carter— then we have to have a solid plan, and take full advantage of this opportunity."

Kendra nodded, begrudgingly, as Leonard and Mick (exchanging some silent conversation) stood and left the room. Jax followed them minutes later as the remaining members of the team continued searching for a plan of action.

After a long time, they find a consensus, "Excellent, we'll go back further in time, regain the element of surprise. After Miss Lance has instructed Kendra on how to utilize the comb, we will target Savage with the full team."

Sara sighed, mentally and physically past the point of exhaustion. Glancing down at the fringe with a disgruntled curl to her lips, Sara turned away from her bedroom and towards the showers.

Normally, she would have immediately noticed the steam not he glass of the changing room, but her mind was cloudier than the mirror she walked past.

A comb. She had to teach the barista turned hero to kill an immortal bad guy with a device designed for styling hair. She would have almost preferred a piece of jewelry.

The mission. Despite enjoying a good fight more than the rest of the team, today had been close— much closer than she was comfortable with. The feeling of staring off the edge of the roof and debating an escape made guilt twist in her gut.

Leonard. The stormy eyes she felt poking holes in her exoskeleton, no matter how desperately she tried to reinforce it. His lips against hers, hands on her lips, '…chill' — a shiver slid up her spine, and Sara closed her eyes savoring it. And then there was the way he'd held her this morning, which somehow managed to take the prize for most surprising event of the day. Her gut constricted again, but the feeling had nothing to do with guilt.

On autopilot, she began the task of getting out of the 1920s dress (hopefully for the last time). Her eyes drifted open, registering through the haze of her thoughts the sensation of being watched.

Leonard watched her, viridian eyes not conveying surprise as much as interest. The fringed gown was fighting gravity, clinging to her curves despite her shoulder's free of the straps, but the fine line of her collarbone was enough to fascinate. His fingers twitched of their own volition.

When he looked back up to her aquamarine eyes, it was impossible to miss the way they roamed over his still dripping frame, bare except for the white cotton towel wrapped around his hips.

Dreamily, she took in the subtly defined muscles, the spattered scars, the entire glory— the sensation so recently summoned in the pit of her stomach sent a bolt of electricity through her system leaving her mouth a bit dry.

How would it feel to push his damp back into the tile behind him? To kiss him in earnest instead of as part of the mission? Get rid of this dress and that towel separating them—

Leonard's lips pulled into a sly smirk when she wet her lips on some primal instinct. "Eyes up here, Lance," he drawled sounding entirely self-satisfied, breaking Sara from her reverie.

The way his eyes watched her, blue-green like the sea during a tempest, brought a blush to her cheeks. It was a look that said he had known just exactly what she'd been thinking.

Swallowing tightly, Sara dodged past him— not trusting herself to speak and confirm his suspicions.

He let her escape, but couldn't help but watching that exposed collarbone as it edged past him and into the privacy of the shower stalls. A predatory smile took his lips and refused to be suppressed, even when she'd vanished from his line of sight.

As he left the stalls to pull his typical sweater and pants on, he couldn't miss the sound of fabric dropping to the floor before the water turned on.

Sara, despite the shower, had immediately tracked down Kendra and dragged her to the training room. After seeing Leonard, and him seeing her, and blushing mess she'd devolved into— well, Sara needed to beat something up.

And one might as well kill two birds (none of those birds were Kendra, she reminded the bloodlust thrumming in her veins). They'd fought until Kendra had begged out. The tension that had Sara on edge had been barely chipped at— so she'd spent another hour punching the dummy.

She'd stopped finally with a defeated sigh, when she noticed they wouldn't escape bruising. Returning back to her room, and ignoring Leonard's door ajar as she walked past, she intended to read and sleep. (And whatever she did, definitely not think about a certain crook.)

… But as hours ticked out and Sara rolled from one side of her bed to the other, punched the pillows to find some optimal softness, and counted down from 100 and up from 0— it became abundantly clear there would be no sleep.

With a sigh she stood up to pace, moving to the small desk in the corner. Upon it sat the mint version of The Great Gatsby. Her fingers traced over the cover, and she found herself chewing her lip and thinking about the exact person she'd ordered herself not to… holding her.

Shaking her head in a frustration at herself, she turned from the book and instead pulled a bottle of bourbon from the alcove near the wardrobe.

Taking a long pull from the bottle, Sara stands in the center of the room for a long moment before she turns, exiting her room.

Her bare feet pad silently down the corridor until she arrives outside Leonard's room, bottle dangling from her fingertips.

When his door opens, Leonard doesn't look up from his book. The room is dim except for the lamp on his bedside. He, however, doesn't have to look up to know who it is— "Canary," he offers as greeting, voice flat.

"Cold." She says back easily, shutting the door behind her. "Don't you think we deserve a toast? After all, we once again proved ourselves the most competent members of this team." His attention remained on his current page, but his lips quirked into a smug smirk.

Unbothered by the silence, Sara settles herself on his bed, taking a swig. For long moments they just sit, drinking and reading, silence turning companionable.

Until Sara got the nerve to breach the subject she realized she'd been dying to all day, what had kept her awake past the point of exhaustion— "So, are we going to talk about it?"

He flipped the page, still not giving her his attention, but his voice held a soft and serious tone that set her off-balance. "Talk about what, Sara?"

Hearing him speak her name (and in so serious a manner) instead of the usual teasing 'assassin,' the cooly distance 'Lance,' or the mocking 'Canary,' left Sara stunned. A rabbit in the headlight.

At that Leonard looked up to her, and with a grin that made her simultaneously want to kiss and slap him, hand reaching out. Sara swallowed watching the hand with a bated breath. His fingers brush hers and he takes the bottle, mirth dancing in his viridian eyes.

"What happened on the mission…" she forced out, determined to stop the backslide before she lost all her self-respect.

"You mean when you made that little noise at the back of your throat?" His eyes seemed to darken. Her cheeks flushed as his icy look burned through her — the kiss. "Did you come here for a repeat performance?" Without breaking the eye contact, he took a slow pull from the bottle. When his lips leave the bottle, his eyebrow quirks teasingly, "Did you think you had to get me drunk?"

Sara's fingers twitch— to punch him? to push him back against the bed?— the heat fanning up her spine impossible to define, bloodlust or just… lust. Instead she reaches out and takes back the bourbon to take a needy drink. That only seems to amuse Leonard more.

Coming up from the bottle, she stopped beating about the bush. "I was having nightmares— last night?"

Leonard leans back with a sigh, sensing the end of the game, and his attention drifted back to his book. After a long moment, "— Yes," he answered truthfully.

Sara takes a moment to adjust it, placing the bottle down on the alcove near his bed. "So you…" but she couldn't manage to finish. Held me seemed wrong— too intimate for the crook colloquially known as Captain Cold.

He didn't make her finish, offering another simple, "… Yes."

Apparently settling things for Sara, she moved further onto the bed to lay down pillowing her head on her crossed arms. Leonard coached his expression carefully blank, but she didn't notice. Sara'd closed her eyes, and gave him her best impression of his lazy drawl, "Read to me."

She couldn't keep the whisper of a smile from her lips when he was silent in response for a long moment. Opening one eye, she saw him smiling in a way she thought might just have been genuine.

But then he frowned and tossed mockingly back, "and then what, we're gonna braid each other's hair?"

"What hair?" she smirked back and closed her eyes.

He sighed, resolve weakening, "I thought you didn't like poetry."

"I'm open… to new things, but pick a good one. Now stop stalling and read, crook."

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Leonard flipped through the pages looking for something he thought Sara would deem a 'good one,' but his thoughts were on her words. Open to knew things?

Finally, he found it and with a tone of someone who was confident with the text and comfortable reading aloud, he began… "I knew a woman, lovely in her bones/ when small birds sighed, she would sigh back to them;/ Ah, when she moved, she moved more ways than one:/ The shapes a bright container can contain!/ Of her choice virtues only gods should speak,/ Or English poets who grew up on Greek/ (I'd have them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek)."

Sara found herself entirely enthralled by the sound of his voice scatting the lyrical syllables. His voice lulled and mesmerized her. A smile etched on her lips as the poem took shape— a shape that she thought might have been very much for her benefit.

When Leonard finished, "What's freedom for? To know eternity./ I swear she cast a shadow white as stone./ But who would count eternity in days?/ These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:/ (I measure time by how a body sways)," the sleep tugging at her was unmistakeable. He debated telling her to go, catching her before she dived into a deep sleep.

Instead, he asked in a hushed tone, "Canary?"

She mumbled something that might have been a request to keep going. With a roll of his eyes, Leonard flipped the spare blanket at the end of the bed over her frame. "This is the last time," he said in the same hush, but Sara was asleep. He opened back up the complete works of Theodore Roethke and read aloud.


End file.
